


Answering Melodies

by Burning_Nightingale



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Diary/Journal, Epistolary, First Meetings, Gen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 03:39:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12099900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/Burning_Nightingale
Summary: Finrod finds the first Men to enter Beleriand (almost entirely by accident)





	Answering Melodies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Dreams of Iridian Paths](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5651818) by [Lunarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium). 



> A remix of Dreams of Iridian Paths by Scribe_of_Mirrormere, written for the Remix Revival 2017.
> 
> This is an encounter/scene I've always been fascinated by, so I had fun thinking up how I wanted this fic to go. The idea of Balan and Finrod talking to each other before the others all woke up was something I found really cute, so I knew this had to be the fic I remixed (I can't lie, I love Beor/Finrod). Thanks for the opportunity to do this, Scribe_of_Mirrormere! I hope you enjoy the remix ;)

_Day 34, Thargelion_

_Advanced approximately six miles south towards Ossiriand today. Pace still leisurely; somewhat delayed by a stop to make a sketch of a truly excellent example of a previously unknown variation of the starflower. As can be seen in my drawing above, the shape of the leaves significantly differ from those of their northern brethren, though the colour and shape of their flowers remain the same. Other than this, no great variations in flora or fauna beyond what I have already described._

_I estimate it has now been around a month and a half since we ventured forth from Himring, and perhaps two weeks since I parted company with my cousins. I still have not made a decision on when I will return home. I cannot tell if it is fate or merely my own selfishness, but something keeps me moving forward, makes me reluctant to turn for home. I have rediscovered the joy of solitude on this journey, and I must admit that I am loath to give it up. I will continue on for perhaps a week more, to give myself a little more time. That, I hope, will not be accounted too extravagant._

_Day 41, Ossiriand_

_Continued planned course southeast, turning a little more toward the mountains. Only four miles achieved today. Spent most of the afternoon observing a small pond found in the woods, which had a fascinating population of most wonderful toads (sketches above). Ossiriand truly brims with new and interesting creatures._

_I promised myself another week of travel before considering once again the question of returning home, and now find myself even less eager to do so. My heart feels lighter out here, my shoulders unburdened. Part of me wishes to go so far as to cross the mountains and see what lands lie on the other side, though I know that would be folly. The dwarves tell of wide, empty, wild lands, with little of value compared to Beleriand; but something in my heart longs to see those lands for myself. I am decided, therefore, to continue for now, though I still do not know how far. I feel sure I will be given a sign of some kind, when it is time for me to turn around._

_Day 48, Ossiriand_

_I am headed directly toward the mountains now. Today I stopped only briefly, making good time_

 

Finrod's quill paused on the page. He was sure he had heard something, a faint noise just on the edge of hearing. He stayed stock-still, listening.

There, again. It sounded like... voices? Possibly. The sound came and went with the wind, so quiet Finrod was half sure he was imagining things.

If it _was_ voices, it surely meant Green Elves. It was unlikely to be orcs, this far south. Still, Finrod laid a hand on his sword hilt as he rose and followed the sound deeper into the trees.

If it was orcs, he would deal with them. If there were Green Elves, he hoped they would talk to him; he hadn't spoken to anyone besides his horse since he'd said farewell to his cousins, and Tansy wasn't the most engaging conversation partner.

The sounds became clearer as he advanced into the dark wood, and soon resolved into indistinct voices - a large number of them. They didn't have the harsh rasp of orcs, but they weren't melodic enough to be elves, either. _Dwarves?_ The thought brought a smile to his face. The _Khazâd_ were welcome fireside companions.

The dwarves who helped him build Nargothrond had taught him some Khuzdul, though he had never been as fluent as Maedhros or Caranthir. Still, as he came close enough to see the flickering of firelight on the canopy of the trees, he could tell the language being spoken was not Dwarvish. It was something new, something he had never heard before.

Cautious now, he crept as quietly as possible between the trees. Ahead, it seemed a big fire was burning, and a large group of whoever the speaking creatures were had gathered around it. Silent as a cat, Finrod pulled himself up into a nearby tree, and advanced the last few paces towards the fire within the concealment of the canopy.

At first he thought he was looking at elves, and almost swung down out of the tree to greet them. But there was something different about them, something that held him back. These creatures were of similar height and shape to elves, but lacked their lithe, slim build and innate, unconscious grace. Most of them had thick, dark hair, cropped to shoulder length or shorter. Among the Noldor and Sindar it was a sign of self-imposed exile to cut your hair at the shoulder, and only criminals had their hair shorn so close to the head. Such a short hairstyle did allow a clear view of the creatures' ears, which Finrod noted with surprise were not pointed, but rounded, much like the dwarves'.

Finrod could clearly recognise a hunting party when he saw one. The creatures may have been strange to him, but their bows and knives were not. They were gathered in small groups around the fire, conversing in their strange language, and one even plucked the strings of a harp and sung softly over the babble of voices.

Finrod hung in the tree, silent, watching in fascinated awe. What _were_ these strange creatures? They did not have the evil, twisted look of Morgoth's vile creations. The small clearing felt alive with bright, wholesome life and cheer, much as if a party of elves or dwarves had been the ones making camp there. Finrod could not believe that they were creatures of evil.

It seemed he had been watching them for an age when at last the harp player stopped, and the hubbub of voices died down as one of the creatures stood. He was male, Finrod guessed, tall and strong, with a thick fall of dark hair to his shoulders. He stood for a few moments without speaking, looking around at the group, as if checking every face, making sure they were all there. Finrod understood that look, had seen it and given it himself many times; this man was surely their leader.

After another moment he began to speak, and his deep voice carried across the clearing. He couldn't understand it, but it sounded intriguingly similar to the Moriquendi tongues he had heard spoken in Doriath. There were even a few words, here and there, that he could pick out and understand. These creatures were from the east, then, and had learnt from or traded with the Moriquendi beyond the mountains.

It was as their leader finished his speech that it hit Finrod. _The Secondborn. They are the Secondborn._ Once he'd realised it, it seemed almost comical that it had taken him so long to work it out. The Secondborn, of _course_ they were the Secondborn. The second promised children of Ilúvatar, the Quendi's counterpart, mirror, companion race. They had finally arrived.

Finrod allowed himself a moment of selfish glee, knowing he would be the first to meet the Secondborn. Quick on its heels came a moment of relief; not everyone among the Noldor had been happy to hear about the second children of Ilúvatar, and Finrod sent a little prayer of thanks up to the heavens that he had been the one to find them first. He would shield them, if need be, from anyone who wished them harm; he could already feel love for them growing in his heart. They were clearly weary, and he could see in their leader's eyes that they carried some darkness with them; but they were also bright, happy, their words full of song and laughter. Their minstrel teasingly strummed a few more chords on his harp, though their leader was clearly telling him to put it away. The other men and women were laying out bedrolls, their chatting much quieter now; their leader must have decided it was time for sleep. The man in question looked stern as he reprimanded the minstrel, though there was the hint of a smile around his mouth. _I like him,_ Finrod decided, _Even from here he seems a good man._

The camp slowly settled. The fire, partially banked, smouldered down to glowing embers, and the sound of breathing slowed into the deep, slow rhythm of sleep. They didn't even set a watch.

Finrod crouched on his tree branch, thinking. He needed a way to approach them diplomatically, presenting himself as non-threatening. He could retreat to his own bedroll, perhaps, and pretend to rediscover them in the morning; but he did not want to lose them. And, he could admit to himself, his heart was burning with the desire to meet them, speak to them, find out who they were and what they were like and how they thought. He was so eager he might have gone down and shaken their leader awake, had he not known that would go over poorly.

So, what to do? He could sit in the middle of their camp and wait for them to wake again, perhaps. He was no stranger to nights without sleep, and it would not be too much of a hardship. And, perhaps, if one woke in the night, he could introduce himself?

It wasn't much of a plan, but he acted on it anyway, swinging himself silently down from the tree and landing with a tiny thump on the soft grass. He took a moment to stretch out his legs, which were aching from spending so long crouched on a tree branch. Then he moved into the circle of sleeping Men, skirting around them with whisper-soft footsteps, until he reached the rock the minstrel had been sitting on earlier. He lowered himself onto it, crossed one leg over the other, and resigned himself to waiting.

He had always prided himself on his patience, but this was a sore test. He desperately wanted to make a noise, some natural sound that might stir the Secondborn into waking, that he might pretend was purely accident. He could imitate several species of owl; would that be enough to wake them?

No, he concluded after a moment, it would not. He shifted his position, switching which leg was crossed over which; and as he did so his foot hit something that produced a familiar discordant _twang_.

Finrod froze, then slowly looked around the circle, checking if any of the Men stirred. None of them seemed to have been disturbed. It was only when he was sure that Finrod took his eyes off the sleeping Men and looked down at his foot, which had connected with the covered harp that the minstrel had left by his perch.

An idea struck Finrod as he looked at the harp. Even as he reached out to uncover it, he could hear a voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like Artanis saying, _Findaráto, this is stupid_ , but he didn't listen to it. He rested the harp in his lap and dragged a finger over the strings, testing the tuning. It was decent, and the quiet fall of notes didn't seem to disturb the ring of sleeping Secondborn. _They do sleep soundly,_ Finrod thought, stretching his fingers out in preparation, _and with their eyes closed, it seems. How very odd._

Preparations complete, Finrod laid his hands to the strings and began to play. At first it was soft, the tune an ancient Valinorian lullaby. He could see on the Men's faces that they heard it, though they didn't wake. They looked more peaceful, almost as if they were slipping into a deeper slumber.

_Not exactly my intention, but I won't begrudge them sweet dreams_ , Finrod thought.

He continued to play, and after a while he got lost in the music, forgetting where he was and why he was playing. The tunes melded together, some Noldo, some Sindarin, even a few he'd picked up from the Moriquendi.

He was in the middle of a Noldo wedding dance when he heard the voice.

“Are you one of the gods?” it asked.

Surprised, Finrod's fingers halted in mid-motion, eliciting an embarrassing screech of notes from the harp. Willing his face not to redden, he turned to look at the speaker.

It was the Secondborn's leader. He didn't seem to have noticed Finrod's fumble on the harp strings; he was staring up at him with something approaching reverence, a wondering awe that made Finrod a little uncomfortable.

He was so surprised that one of the Men had woken, had spoken to him, that it took Finrod a moment to remember that he had been asked a question. The Secondborn had used a Moriquendi dialect that Finrod was only passingly familiar with, and he had to run the words over again in his head a few times before he made sense of them. When the meaning became clear, he frowned a little. "Gods?" he asked.

The Man spoke slowly, clearly struggling with the language. "Gods of the West. We go there to escape the dark foe."

At that, Finrod smiled. They were enemies of Morgoth, just as he had thought. Still smiling, he tucked the harp under his arm and walked around the fire, closer to their leader. _I will make friends with them yet,_ he thought, his steps light and his chest full almost to bursting with wild excitement.

_Indeed, I am looking forward to it._

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'm here and also at darthrevaan.tumblr.com if you want to chat :D


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